


et maintenant tout est plus fort

by only_partly



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 16:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_partly/pseuds/only_partly
Summary: It was snowing in New York. It had been snowing in New York, for several days now. It didn’t stop John from doing his job, anymore than the extreme heat of Afghanistan had. He worries about Harold, though, who doesn’t do well with cold of any kind. The Library is great but it doesn’t exactly have central heating and he’s not convinced Harold’s wool suits are adequate. Harold can’t work if he’s too locked up with pain to concentrate. It’s an easy thing, making sure Harold is well stocked with tea and pastries and Bear keeps his feet warm. It’s when he finds himself contemplating buying hot water bottle at the bodega he stopped in for lunch that he wonders if he might, possibly, be compromised.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	et maintenant tout est plus fort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hypocorism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypocorism/gifts).



> for jamie.

_Adolescence contrariée par un millier de chardons morts_

_Marcher pieds nus sur du verre et maintenant tout est plus fort_

_Adolescence contrariée par un millier de remords_

_Maintenant quand je ressens quelque chose, tout est bien plus fort_

_People, I’ve been sad, Christine and the Queens_

* * *

It was snowing in New York. It _had_ been snowing in New York, for several days now. It didn’t stop John from doing his job, anymore than the extreme heat of Afghanistan had. He worries about Harold, though, who doesn’t do well with cold of any kind. The Library is great but it doesn’t exactly have central heating and he’s not convinced Harold’s wool suits are adequate. Harold can’t work if he’s too locked up with pain to concentrate. It’s an easy thing, making sure Harold is well stocked with tea and pastries and Bear keeps his feet warm. It’s when he finds himself contemplating buying hot water bottle at the bodega he stopped in for lunch that he wonders if he might, possibly, be compromised. 

Harold can buy his own hot water bottle if he wants it, or needs it, surely. He doesn’t need John to take care of him like he’s one of their numbers. But the more John thinks about that, the more uneasy he gets. If Harold starts getting things for himself, what is John supposed to do? He realises with a little start that he’s standing in the aisle of the bodega glaring at the hot water bottle like it’s the thing’s fault and not his own that he can’t keep from becoming inappropriately invested in his employer’s health.

Also, the owner is staring at him, about two seconds from pressing the panic button under his counter, so John forces himself to smile, bringing the damn thing up to the counter along with his turkey sandwich and saying, “Sorry about that. My wife gets bad. Cramps.”

The man’s face smooths out at once into an understanding smile, nodding sympathetically. He fishes under the counter, coming up with a packet of tea. “Herbal,” he says, with a wink. “Is very good, very helpful for pain.”

What the hell, John thinks, and nods his thanks. It’s not likely to hurt him, and it might help. Smells mostly of valerian and chamomile anyway.

Harold raises his eyebrows at it, when John sets a fresh cup of it in front of him. “Is this intended as some sort of assassination by smell attempt?” He asks, looking about two seconds from holding a kerchief before his nose.

“Secret family recipe,” John says solemnly, “Helps with pain.”

Harold glares at him, in the way he does when he knows John is right about something but is unhappy about it even so. “And what makes you think I need such a thing?”

“Come on, Harold,” John says, “Cold’s not easy on me either.”

It’s a cheap shot, maybe, but it works. Harold’s expression goes concerned the way it always does at any prospect of harm to John, and it gives him the same strange curl of warmth in the pit of his stomach that it always does when Harold fusses over him after a hard job or when he gets hurt.

“I didn’t even think - do you require a thicker coat? Or, no, gloves; of course I should have thought -”

“Harold,” John interrupts, amused. “I’ll be fine. I’ve worked through worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to simply ignore your own needs because you’ve had deeper ones,” Harold says querulous, and then his cheeks tinge a little red as John raises an eyebrow. “Yes, all right, I take your point,” he says, still inclined to grumble, but he pulls the tea closer to himself.

“Great,” John says, “Because I got you a hot water bottle, too.”

* * *

John may have won that round, but he really should have known better than to underestimate Harold. There’s a new hat, scarf, and gloves ensemble laid out in his apartment for him when he gets in that night. The hat and gloves are fur lined, and he’s pretty sure the scarf is cashmere and cost more than his month’s salary, back when he had one and not just a bank account that never dips under an obscene amount no matter how much he spends. The gloves are soft to the touch; leather, and thin enough despite the fur that he can still strip and reassemble his guns with ease. Not that he would, wearing these. They’re far too fine to get grease all over them for no reason. Bad enough they’re pretty much guaranteed to be lost to blood or concrete or bullets in short order.

He finds himself especially grateful the next morning, when the number choses to go wandering at random all over Manhattan, peering into alleyways like they have a death wish. Thanks to his new things, he’s only lost feeling in his feet and nose by the time the guy gives up on whatever he’s looking for and goes back home to his nice apartment with plenty of electronic gadgets Harold has hacked into so they can watch them from the comfort of the Library. Harold, John notices with what he feels is pardonable smugness, is using the hot water bottle.

Harold notices him noticing, and proceeds to completely discomfort John by smiling at him instead of becoming annoyed or defensive. “It does help; thank you John.” His nose wrinkles a little. “I’m still not convinced the drink does anything but ruin the concept of tea.”

“Well, coffee’s better anyway,” John says, a weak retort at best, but he’s still stuck on Harold smiling at him and thanking him, and the way the curl of warmth has grown. He probably wouldn’t even need his new hat if he goes out right now, the way his whole body feels like he’s about to slip into a hot bath. He’d be overheated if anything.

He’s extremely grateful when Bear drops his saliva-dripping toy at his feet and he can make a fuss of him and throw it deep into non-fiction for him to fetch back. He can feel Harold’s eyes on him nevertheless, but he’s not brave enough to look up and meet them. For a minute, he thinks Harold might say something anyway, but then one of Harold’s many devices beeps and John is out again, trailing the number into still _more_ alleyways. 

The third day of this they finally discover what it’s about - the guy works in one of the local jewelry stores, and after they’d had a break in one day he’d seized the chance and pocketed some diamonds before anyone realised the original robber hadn’t taken them. He hadn’t had time to get them home, so he’d stashed them in an alley on his lunch break and forgotten which one. Unfortunately for him, his boss had had the same idea, and when he found out their number had taken the diamonds he’d planned to steal himself he came after him with a crowbar. 

After both men were neatly zip tied and left for Joss with the missing diamonds duct taped to their backs, John was plenty glad to take Harold’s suggestion that he just go straight home and get warm. He’d lost one of the gloves in the scramble, and the scarf had been stretched when one of the guys had tried to strangle John with it. The hat had survived, but he’d been sad to have to tell Harold about the other things. Harold, of course, had told him not to worry about it; that he could easily get another set, and then told him to have a good evening and the comm had gone quiet.

There’s something really peaceful about snow, John thinks, when it wasn’t trying to kill you. It’s snowing again as he walks home, if it ever stopped in the first place, and the quiet drift of it blankets the usual mad rush of traffic and too-harsh lights. He’s smiling as he lets himself into the apartment and divests himself of his gear and coat with his usual efficiency. He’s been thinking about the massive bathtub in his equally massive bathroom for hours today and he has every intention of filling it nearly to the brim and falling asleep there until the cooling water woke him. 

It’s a plan that’s instantly arrested when he walks into his room and sees Harold there, sitting on his bed. He stops, fingers stilling on his shirt buttons. It’s Harold’s apartment of course, technically, and it’s not like John wants to keep him out even if he could. He just would really like to know -

“What are you doing here, Harold?” He manages, a little hoarse despite his best efforts. The case is wrapped up, Joss had called them to complain that she actually has better things to do than follow them around picking up after them, which is absolutely true but doesn’t change them dumping perps on her step being really funny, and John was about to - have a bath.

“I came by to give you these.” Harold indicates a pile of soft grey by his side, and John sees, yeah, it’s a replacement for the winter-wear he lost. It’s kind of Harold, of course, but he could have had them delivered, like the first set, or John could have picked them up tomorrow, or - he stops, looking at Harold more carefully.

He looks a little nervous, sitting even more straight than usual, with his hands folded neatly in his lap, and something in John’s chest leaps. He takes a step forward, undoing the last button of his shirt. Harold’s eyes follow his fingers. He takes another step, letting his fingers brush his waistband. Harold’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “John -”

John doesn’t let him finish, sinking to his knees in front of Harold and resting both hands on Harold’s thighs. He’s relieved his hands aren’t shaking, that nothing is betraying how much he wants this, how much he wants to bury his face in Harold’s lap, in _Harold_ , and never leave again. 

“John,” Harold says again, and this time John looks up, meeting Harold’s eyes. “I don’t wish to - if this isn’t something you want of course I understand and - you are under no obligation at all, of course, I certainly don’t want you to feel -”

“Harold,” John gets out, and Harold is abruptly quiet, expectant. “I want to.”

Harold holds his gaze for another minute, an eternity, and then nods. “Do you want me to - my physical restrictions are somewhat extensive, I’m afraid, but I’m certain with some manuevering I could manage some kind of oral sex, I think, if you had no objection.”

“I want you,” John starts, and considers just stopping there, because it’s really the whole sum of the truth, isn’t it. He wants Harold, however Harold will let him have him, but Harold is also waiting for him, patient as always, but the tips of his fingers are stroking the back of John’s neck, which is making it hard to concentrate. “I want you to - I don’t care, Harold. However is fine, I can just - I’d like to - to suck you off, if you’ll let me.”

“If I’ll -” Harold starts, and then stops, eyes ranging over John’s face as though he’s looking for something. He seems to find it, because he nods to himself once, satisfied, and the hand still on the back of John’s neck tightens. “Very well, then. You may take me out and use your mouth, if you’d like.”

John shivers, all over, and it seems like the hand on the back of his neck is the only real fixed point in the universe right now. His hands _are_ shaking, fumbling the buttons down Harold’s placet and when he has them finally undone and the flaps folded back he takes a moment to breathe, deep, before he leans forward, kissing reverently the tip of Harold’s cock still under the thin line of his sheath. It’s not hard, yet, soft and pliant beneath John’s exploring mouth, but Harold doesn’t stop him as he mouths his way up one side and down the other, lingering beneath it, where a day’s musk has gathered and turned the soft place warm and heady. He licks, gently, and takes the quiet intake of breath as a positive sign and he does it again, and then again. He wonders if he can stay here, whenever he’s not needed somewhere else, just stay on his knees for Harold until Harold gets tired of him. The flush of gratefulness at getting to have this, even for a while, is so strong that he has to pull back for a moment and just breathe, forehead braced against Harold’s knee. Harold’s shoes are just beneath him, brown leather neat and laces tidy as usual. Before he’s thought, he’s lowered his head still further, regretfully leaving behind Harold’s grip on his neck, in order to press a kiss to the stitching on the instep. 

Above him, Harold’s breath catches. “John,” He says, “John.”

John looks up at him, for once not caring about Harold reading too much from a too open face, and manages, “Please.”

“Would you have me tell you what I’d like to do to you?” Harold asks, putting a hand beneath John’s open shirt to rest on his chest. “You have no _idea_ -” He breaks off, hand sliding up to rest over John’s throat. “I’d have you in a collar - _my_ collar. Property of Harold Finch. I know someone who does bespoke designs, so well made that it would take even you hours to figure out the trick of undoing it.”

John nods, as much to feel the weight of Harold’s hand as in agreement.

“I would have you stripped from the moment you stepped over the threshold. Would you like that, John? Dressed in nothing but your collar and cuffs to match.” Harold’s voice goes on without waiting for an answer, as implacable and didactic as it ever is over the comms on a job. “And you would let me do anything I wanted with you, wouldn’t you? Stretch yourself out and offer yourself up.” There’s a hint of wonder in his voice that John can’t understand.

Harold saw him and knew him and gave him a purpose. Harold made him a person again. Why wouldn’t he give him anything he wanted?

“All this time,” John says, more hoarsely than the hand still lightly on his throat accounts for, “You’ve seen me as more than just a killer. More than what they made me to be. You help me save people.” He doesn’t know how to tell Harold how heavy the weight of that statement is, after being pointed his whole life and told to kill and then discarded like so much garbage. To be taken up again and cleaned and polished with precise touches and bespoke suits and unending trust - of course John is going to put himself back into those hands.

“Oh, John.” Harold says, tone still soft and wondering, and then he tugs him up, John going willingly, until he can kiss John’s mouth, John kneeling up high so Harold doesn’t have to strain to reach him, gratefully drinking in the kisses like they’re the last drops of water in his canteen.

Five minutes, five hours - a lifetime later, and Harold pulls back, a strange look in his eyes. “Stand up,” he says, without a hint of a request, and John is obeying before he’s thought, standing at attention despite the obvious line of his cock in his pants. “Strip for me.” 

What a gorgeous, beautiful, breathtaking thing the possessive is, John thinks, as he discards his clothes with military efficiency, What a delight, to be able to do this _for_ Harold, to see the appreciation in his eyes as John settles back into parade rest, hands linked behind his back.

“Good,” Harold says, and John is glad his knees are locked against the tide that wants to pull him directly back to his knees. “On the bed, face up.”

John obeys with alacrity, spreading his limbs to the four corners, already imagining the cuffs Harold spoke of earlier locked around his wrists and ankles, anchoring him safely to the sturdy posts. No cheap hotel press-board, this. He would have to dislocate at least one limb in order to get out. 

“I know you would keep your eyes closed if you asked,” Harold says, getting stiffly up from the end of the bed and coming around to one side, fingers unknotting his tie as he speaks, “But this will be a good reminder for you.” 

Cool silk rests over John’s obediently closed eyes, and he raises his head as Harold knots it just above his left ear. He wonders for a minute why Harold didn’t simply tie it in the back before he realises that, lying on his back, the knot would have been an irritating lump behind his skull. It’s not something he’s ever thought of, since usually when he’s got a blindfold on he’s got bigger things to worry about than a little discomfort, but the fact that Harold _has_ thought of it is enough to make him glad for the blindfold, that Harold can’t see the look in his eyes.

If he thought that was going to be the worst of it, he’s swiftly disabused of that notion. As soon as the blindfold is on, Harold starts _touching_ him. Not his cock, or his hole, but just random touches, all over. Fingertips trailing down a thigh, a thoughtful pinch of his right nipple, a flash of pain from blunt nails dragging down his stomach, a hand settling back on his throat. John does his best to hold himself still; to not arch up into the touches, but he loses the battle when there’s a beat with no touch at all, and then a hot mouth on the side of his neck, catching the skin there and worrying at it. His head goes back and his heels dig in to the mattress, straining to keep his hands still at his sides and his mouth quiet. 

He’s panting wildly by the time Harold pulls off, pressing one last lingering kiss to the place and then one to John’s open mouth. The random touches start again, with special attention paid to John’s stomach and thighs, as though Harold is claiming for himself all of the places John has been secretly beginning to be ashamed of. He keeps himself fit enough to do his job, of course, but it’s often and oftener now that he’ll help himself to one of the pastries he brings Harold, or allow Harold to buy him the kind of dinners that have courses. He almost wants to pull away, to curl himself up defensively, but Harold’s hands come down on his hips, decisive, and he stills immediately. He’s Harold’s, after all, and if Harold doesn’t care, why should he?

“I’m going to have your mouth now, John,” Harold says, almost thoughtfully, and prevents any response John might have made by setting himself on John’s chest and feeding John his cock.

The little bit of John’s brain that isn’t suffused in pleasure is noticing that Harold hasn’t even taken off his _pants_. He’s sitting on top of John, fully dressed, using John’s mouth to get himself off, and John has never been harder in his life. If Harold so much as breathes near his cock he’s going to come.

Maybe Harold senses this, because in between thrusting into John’s mouth and casually feeling the bulge of his cock through the thin skin of John’s throat, he says, “You do not have permission to come, John.”

John feels that same wave of head to foot shivers from earlier overtake him again, tears springing back to his eyes. His shoulders relax in the wake of it, and he drifts, breathing when Harold tells him to breathe and taking Harold deep into his throat when Harold gives him the word.

He comes back to himself when Harold gives a small, aborted moan and his hips thrust twice, three times, and he comes down John’s throat. He stays very still, mouth still open and covered with spit and traces of come, and waits for Harold to tell him what to do next. He feels Harold get up and the rustle of clothes, and then there are gentle hands undoing the knot above his ear and he blinks slowly in the dim light of the room. Harold’s cock is tucked neatly back into his trousers. The tie dangling from one hand and a high flush in his cheeks are the only indicators that anything at all has happened. 

That, and John laying spread eagled on the bed, cock hard and tear tracks running down the corners of his eyes. The bed dips again as Harold sits beside his hip, and then Harold is touching him, _finally_ , touching his cock and thumbing over his hole, and John is panting, because if Harold doesn’t, if he doesn’t have permission, and if Harold keeps on, then John is going to -

“Come,” Harold says, orders, and John obeys this order as promptly as he has all the others. Harold keeps his hand on him throughout, and then as John is still trembling through the aftershocks, Harold rolls his balls in one hand and says thoughtfully, “We’ll have to see about getting you fitted for a cage, before next time. I like to make sure my things are safe.”

John is too busy thrilling to the words ‘next time’ to even care. Learning to fight with a cock cage on might be a challenge, but hey, it’s not like he’s not used to those, and giving up orgasms any time he likes is an infinitesimal price to pay in return for the casual appropriation of them by Harold. There’s really only one thing to say, and it’s, “Yes, Harold.”

Harold surveys him, head a little on one side - like a bird, John thinks, only a little hysterically - and then says, “I think we had better have a hot bath.”


End file.
